Treat the wood the same as the water and when I watch the blinded fold—nope. When the slats are slated. Nope. Bet well there’s a boat in the grass. I’m standing behind the taker of the photograph. The water is choppy still then it gets up and goes into the bathtub, tips its shampoo over the soil. Get clean, get clean. I’m saying to my holey arms. This never happening darning. The stitch clipped. Each year the wood is stained and sanded and trained to withstand us. I once left the country in the country and swallowed ice chips. I can plate the reflection in the glass. You turn on the television after there’s something left to talk through. Nope. The same shadow on each housed thing. Nope. The sky is the undercolor of a sea. Bet on me and beat it when the blinds fold back.